“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“Ed.” the bartender cautioned.
“What?”
“Let it rest.”
“What?” Ed repeated. “I asked the guy a simple question. I can’t ask a question now?”
“Let the guy finish his beer.” To Oliver: “Drink up, fella. Maybe find another bar.”
But Oliver didn’t want to find another bar. What Oliver really wanted was for the guy in the brown coat to go away. What Oliver really wanted was for this sudden feeling of unease to be a reaction to the beer and not the presence of the other man. What Oliver really wanted wasn’t going to happen and, somehow, he knew it. In a lifetime of being singled out for attention, he learned to recognize the signs. He took another drink from the bottle, chugged a couple of swallows. The third chug didn’t get swallowed because Oliver’s epiglottis decided it was a good time to flip over for a breath of fresh air. His lungs then protested the invasion of beer and made a concerted effort to expel the invader with enough force to send the beer back up Oliver’s throat. His mouth filled. Then over filled. The excess rushed through his sinus cavities and out his nose about the same time the bubble of expelled air caused enough pressure to force his mouth open.
Things might have been all right if Oliver had been facing the bar when the little flap of tissue in his throat betrayed him. But Ed had just poked Oliver again and Oliver had just turned his head toward the guy. So the beer and the snot and whatever else might have been clinging to several mucus membranes in Oliver’s head landed mostly on the side of the Ed’s face and splashed down onto the left shoulder of the dirty brown coat.
Oliver’s head was bent down, so he didn’t see the big overhand right. The detonation of pain as his right cheekbone shattered caused his vision to strobe. As he tumbled off the stool, Oliver saw the guy in the brown coat flicker in and out of sight. He felt something pop in his right shoulder when he hit the floor. Another blast of pain wrapped loving arms around him and squeezed real tight, tight enough to make him scream and fart in an off-key duet. Flat on his back, he tried not to move; tried real hard, but it hurt so bad. His face and then his shoulder and then his face again and the guy in the brown coat was leaning over Oliver and the guy wasn’t laughing or even smiling, but he had his fist clenched and his arm cocked and he looked meaner than Chino in ‘The Wild One’.
WWBD?
Right then Oliver Prender didn’t give two farts in a windstorm what Marlon Brando would do. What he cared about was not getting hit again because he was pretty sure he couldn’t handle any more pain without pissing in his jeans. The bartender must have known because he leaned over the bar and grabbed the brown leather coat and jacked the guy back against the bar hard enough to make him grunt.
“Goddammit, Ed!”
“What’d you expect me to do? The little prick threw up on me.”
“You should’ve left him alone like I told you. Now we gotta call an ambulance. Cops and shit are gonna be crawling all over and there goes my business for the night.”
“No.” The bartender and the brown coat turned at the sound of Oliver’s squeak. He was up on his left elbow, waiting for the a little ebb in the tide of agony. “No ammunce. No cos. I’n okay.” His mouth wasn’t working right. It hurt when he moved his jaw. It hurt when he didn’t.
“You’re fucked up, kid,” the bartender groused. “Your face is all crooked. You need a doctor.”
Oliver struggled to his knees, used a stool to lever himself to his feet. The bartender was blurry. Ed, he of the dirty brown coat, wasn’t any more distinct. Oliver shook his head. Bad idea. Really bad idea. The pain was one thing. Hearing the broken bones in his face grate against one another was a whole different level of experience.
WWBD?
Brando would come storming off the floor, hurt or not. Brando would be on the guy in the brown coat like stink on shit. Brando would deal so much pain on the bastard that his own injuries would be a hangnail in comparison. All Oliver could manage was a stumble against the stool as he fumbled with the zipper on one of the jacket pockets. “No cos,’ he repeated and winced at the pain, then groaned at the agony of the wince.
“Jesus, Ed, get him up on the stool.”
“Fuck him.”
“Goddammit, help him onto a stool.”
Ed stepped forward, put his hands in Oliver’s armpits and lifted, smiling as he worked his fingers into the damaged shoulder joint. The injured man screamed as the cartilage in his separated shoulder tore. He pulled his left hand out of the jacket pocket and Ed’s eyes widened at the click of the switchblade opening. His eyes widened even more when Oliver, with twenty-six years of frustration behind the effort, slid the blade into the softness under the brown coat and jerked his arm sideways. Ed dropped Oliver and fell backwards, hands clutching at his gaping stomach.
Oliver bounced off the stool and crashed to the floor face first. The broken cheekbone shattered even more. The orbital socket of his left eye, denied the support of the heavier cheekbone, collapsed. His left eye popped out of the socket and dangled by the optic nerve. Three small pieces of splintered bone punctured Oliver’s frontal lobe, severing the medial artery.
In his last moment of consciousness, he thought:
WWBD?
Somewhere, in all the pain, Oliver Prender decided even Brando had his limits.
*~*~*
A tall, mustached and rarely serious man, Wayne lives and writes in a suburb of Minneapolis with two cats, one wife and the normal compliment of spiders. On any given day Wayne can be found flying in the face of convention. After convention brushes him away, Wayne flies in the face of adversity. When he isn’t flitting around annoying time-honored concepts, he writes a poem or a hundred or shoots pool or kills someone in a book....like his newest release “The Button Man.”
You can follow Wayne at:
https://www.facebook.com/wdwriter
https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/awriter
Meat the Parents
Moria Briggs
In this world, this world I'm stuck in, I learned that people who do bad things deserve to be punished. If you hurt someone, you get hurt back times three. And I am willing to enforce that on people who deserve it.
“Hello sweetie” my mother said, walking into my room.
“I told you to knock,” I said.
“This is my house,” my mother replied coldly. “I can knock or not knock on the door when I want to.”
I looked up at her “Do you think you can control me?” A faint growl escaped my lips.
My mother walked over and put her nose to mine “Yes. I. Am. Your. Mother.”
She punctuated Mother with a bit of spit shooting at my face before strolling out of my room, slamming the door behind her. My mother. Her friends addressed her as Lisa. Oh Lisa, what a nice woman you were. Kind, sweet, beautiful. But you had no idea what your daughter was thinking. You had no idea, but you would. Soon ...
I walked into the kitchen nonchalantly, as happy as a clam and oh what a sick joy was building within me. My mother was talking on the phone and I knew who with. My therapist would have conversations with her for hours, suggesting medications and treatments that my mother would set aside, decline. I grabbed an apple and sat down at the table next to her. The kitchen was small but not too small. A white linoleum floor, a black fridge, breakfast bar and plenty of cabinets to spare. A small circular wooden table sat in the middle with three wooden chairs.
“Mom—” I was saying when I was cut off by a sharp “Shut up. I'm on the phone.”
I stood and threw away my untouched apple. When the garbage can closed, it made a soft clunk.
“Shut-up!” she said. “Now leave or stay here and shut your mouth!”
As I sat down, I felt a rage building inside me.
“I'm sorry,” my mother said into the phone, “I'll call you in a few days if I'm free. My daughter is misbehaving. Yes. Yes goodbye.”
The chair scr
aped against the ground making a soft squeak. My mother screamed “SHUT UP!”
I lost it.
Screaming, I ran over to my mother and smashed her in the head with my fist. I heard a slight crack as my knuckles smashed her crown and she let out a yowl. I took duct tape out of one of the cabinets and tore off a double arm length strip of tape. I forced my dearest Lisa's arms against her chair and wrapped the tape around her like a mummy, I used an extra piece to cover her mouth.
Where should I do what I will with her?
One place came to me: the garage. I grabbed the back of the chair and dragged it along the hallway.
I stopped halfway to run into my room and grab a pair of old gloves. I needed to make sure no prints were left. Thanks for letting me watch all those murder mystery shows mom.
I walked back to where I left her and continued down the hallway, until we reached the stairs.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
I dragged her down the stairs to the middle of the garage and ripped the strip of tape from her mouth. She screamed. I smiled. A beautiful moment in my life.
“WHATTHEHELLDOYOUTHINKYOU’REDOINGLETMEGOYOU’REGONNABEINBIGTROUBLE!!”
Wearing a smile, I picked up a wrench from the floor, walked over and raised my arm.
“Shut up.” I swung my arm down, bringing the metal tool across Lisa's face.
Her lips broke, no, tore open with a fountain of blood. She began to cry, tears streaming down her face. I grabbed a screwdriver and with a growl, drove it into the middle of her forehead. Contentment filled me. Blood … everywhere. A loud shriek bled into a groan then became silence. I had a slight smile on my face as I carried my mother into a closet in the garage and locked the door. Nobody came to check on me and the police never came.
* * *
It happened again.
On Halloween.
My father got me really pissed.
“You cannot stay up!” he yelled.
Josh is his name.
“I'm gonna stay up no matter what!”
“YOUR GONNA GET IN BED AND STAY IN THERE OR ELSE I'LL PUT YOU TO BED MYSELF!!”
A faint growl escaped my lips as he closed the door, then a smile spread across my face. Oh Josh, you made the same mistake as Lisa did, you sorry, sorry, man. I walked out and saw him standing in the doorway of the garage. This is my chance. I won’t have another. I ran up and shoved him in the back. I heard a crack as he fell down the stairs. I ran down jumped onto both of his arms then stomped his legs. He let out a sharp yell as I dragged him by the back of his shirt deeper into the garage. Now how will I carve this flesh pumpkin? Ah I know what I will do. It is a magic word: evisceration. That's a minimum of 17 points in Scrabble. How it rolls off the tongue nicely.
He was already lying on the ground. His arms and legs were broken so it would be easy. He wouldn't be able to fight back. Now what to use? I stood and thought while I heard screams and curses in the background. I walked upstairs and took a knife from the drawer. It was long and sharp, a handle I could wrap my whole hand around for a good grip. I walked back down the stairs. My father was lying on the ground, tears forming in his eyes. I took a small piece of duct tape and put it over his mouth. I gripped the knife and stabbed his stomach. His eyes grew big with pain and fear. I tore his skin as I ran the knife down to his belly button.
I knew he was dead when I dragged the knife down his chest the first three inches. I took a recycling box and reached my hands into the open flesh, grabbing and tearing out what I think were intestines. I put a fitting top on the box and pushed it into the corner. Then I grabbed the body and dragged it into the same closet where I left my mother. As I opened the door, the first smell that hit me was death—rotting, decaying flesh that the rats had easily found. I pushed my father's body into the closet carelessly and locked the door. I sighed and I walked upstairs, turning off the light and closing the door behind me. Next, I went into the bathroom and thoroughly washed the blood and loose pieces of flesh from my hands.
The sky had darkened, so I put the box of remains on the back of my bike. I slowly pedaled down the street, took a right, then a left, and then stopped at a brick wall up to my knees. I took the box off the back of the bike then poured the stinking remains onto the ground. ‘Eat up’ is what ran through my mind as bugs and a few rats began to crawl onto the pile of organs on the ground. I got back on my bike and rode home.
* * *
“So that’s all that happened?” The figure sitting in the chair looked at me with a serious face.
“Yes.” I said.
The man got up from the table and walked over to a filing cabinet, opening it to place papers in, then closing it with a soft clunk.
“Well little girl,” he said, as he walked over to the table and sat down. “You're in trouble and I hope you realize that.”
All I did was smile and looked at a concrete wall that was where a window would be.
I was driven to a big place that looked like a hospital. When I came in, they told me to strip to my underwear. Once I was naked, they put a “special” jacket on me and walked me down the hallway to a room. The inside was padded and white. There was a bed in the middle of the room along with a chair. They both appeared to be screwed to the ground. When they removed the jacket, they said I would be checked on daily to make sure I was doing alright and if I needed anything to tell them. I sat silently on the floor as the door slammed shut and the lock clicked.
Patient: Briggs,Moira
Date secured: 12-3-2013
Secured For: Psychopathic behavior
Other: Parents missing, no other
close family, no other information
known.
Release date: Unknown
*~*~*
Moira Briggs is a teen living in New York's beautiful Hudson Valley. She is a member of her middle school's Creative Writing Club. Moira wrote her first poem at age 3 and is currently working on a novel about the Zombie Apocalypse. Stay tuned !
Outlaw Josie Woot
Larey Batz
Finally, Lucille walked over to his table—well not exactly to his table. She stood about eight feet away, pad and pen in hand, contempt in her eyes.
She sighed, her lips pressed to one side. “What ya’ having?”
“I’ve been sitting here for thirty minutes,” he said.
“Law says I have ta’ serve ya’. Didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout havin’ ta’ be quick about it.”
“You’re not that busy, Lucille.”
“Packed house ‘til you showed up.” She glanced at a few of the other customers and her face tightened, making the creases in her wrinkled face deeper. “You eatin’ or bitchin’?”
“I’m waiting for someone. I’ll just have a coffee for now.”
She rolled her eyes. “Who’s joinin’ ya’? Another rot bag?”
“Why do you have to insult me? I’ve been a regular customer at this diner for years. We used to talk all the time.”
“That was before ya’ went and got ya’self initiated. I don’t find myself inclined to take up casual conversation with things that wanna eat me.”
“How many times do we have to do this? I’ve had the shots. I don’t crave human flesh anymore.”
“Ta’ hell with those shots. Don’t mean nothin’. I know what your kind really wants ta’ eat and it ain’t on no menu of mine.”
“Like I said, cup of coffee for now. And I’d like it from one of the pots behind the counter. None of your ‘special blend’ from the back, this time please.”
The portly waitress flashed a pained smile and walked away. Red’s Diner had been his favorite spot in his former life. Coming there, even in his current state, made him feel connected to the person he once was. Even though he was an outcast, he had every right to be there. He was one of the foremost leaders for Zombie rights, and his dream was to see his people integrated at the same rate as had occurred in the major cities. He refused to let his small South Carolina town f
all behind the progress made nationally.
After the government contained the outbreak, all remaining zombies were forced to register and undergo ‘The Protocol’—a series of injections to eliminate the craving for human flesh and reduce the probability of spreading infection by 99.2 percent. In his small town of Six Ditch, that .8 percentage had become the local rallying cry. T-shirts, bumper stickers, hats and even some versions of the state flag, all carried the slogan ‘Remember the 0.8.’
The door chimes caused him to spin around. Unlike the previous five times, the person he was waiting for stepped through the door. Wearing a navy t-shirt and jeans, Agent Annie Walls walked across the floor with quiet confidence and a toothpick riding the corner of her lips. He stood, though in his state, there was little reason to believe she’d have a problem pointing him out.
All eyes followed her as she headed to his booth. She was younger than he imagined from her tone over the phone. Not bad on the eyes. Attractive, but stern features. Long, dark hair. Nice sway in the hips. Not what he was expecting at all, considering she was F.B.I.
After she slid across the worn vinyl, he returned to his seat opposite. “Agent Walls?”
“Bingo.” She removed her dark glasses and stared around the diner. “I’m surprised you’d pick this place to meet, Mr. Batz. Are they giving you any flack?”
“No more than the usual. And you can call me Larey.”
“Here’s the deal, Mr. Batz. My office authorized the tap and we believe she’s going out tonight.”
“Great. Why don’t you arrest her then?”
“We will. But we need to catch her in the act.”
Fat fingers slammed a plastic cup on the table and Lucille’s arm jerked away a split second later. She took a few steps back and turned toward Agent Walls. “Hmmm. You ain’t from ‘round here.”
Annie tilted her head, eyebrow raised. “What gave me away? My upright posture?”
Lucille parked her hands over her wide hips. “Everybody’s a comedian. You ordering or what?”